The
Frenchman flings his fingers dexterously over the canvas, but he has
never had that in his heart which the rude Highlander had.
The path across the arable field was covered with a design of bird's
feet. The reversed broad arrow of the fore-claws, and the straight line
of the hinder claw, trailed all over it in curving lines. In the dry
dust, their feet were marked as clearly as a seal on wax--their trails
wound this way and that, and crossed as their quick eyes had led them to
turn to find something. For fifty or sixty yards the path was worked with
an inextricable design; it was a pity to step on it and blot out the
traces of those little feet. Their hearts so happy, their eyes so
observant, the earth so bountiful to them with its supply of food, and
the late warmth of the autumn sun lighting up their life. They know and
feel the different loveliness of the seasons as much as we do. Every one
must have noticed their joyousness in spring; they are quiet, but so
very, very busy in the height of summer; as autumn comes on they
obviously delight in the occasional hours of warmth. The marks of their
little feet are almost sacred--a joyous life has been there--do not
obliterate it.
Pages:
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293